What I Like About You
by milkthepanda
Summary: Dally x Johnny. Dallas thinks about his affection for Johnny in the oddest of ways. Oneshot, possible slash or can be friendship. Complete.


**Disclaimer:** The Outsiders © Susan Eloise Hinton  
**Warnings:** Can be slash or friendship, coarse language, old piece of writing  
**Summary:** Dallas thinks about his affection for Johnny in the oddest of ways.

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**What I Like About You  
**By _Orange Coconuts_

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I just didn't get what people see in Johnny Cade. Sure, he's a nice kid and all, with that ridiculous honesty and shameful skill of being too trusting; but, am I the only fuckin' person on this godforsaken planet who sees the _flaws_ that Johnnycake carries 'round with him? Am I the only one who is not blinded by his innocence that can actually grasp the concept of him being, well, annoying?

Now, don't get me wrong. I care for that Cade kid, I really do. I care for him as much as any of the other members in our gang – maybe even a little bit more. Why? 'Cause people like Darry have his own people to worry 'bout, like Ponyboy and Soda, while Soda an' Steve look out for each other. Two-bit is too busy getting his lazy ass drunk to get into too much shit anyway, so he don't matter. But what about Johnny? Who's gonna look after him when his ol' man takes out the two-by-four and starts beating the tar out of the boy? Who's gonna put an arm 'round his shoulders and tell him to stop his sissy cryin' and to move on with life? Definitely not Ponyboy, I'll tell ya that much. That dumbass is too occupied with dreaming about that Soc broad, Cherry-what's-her-name.

So, there was only me left. I was the only person who could protect Johnny thoroughly on a regular basis.

Do I resent this job? To be honest with you, I don't, but it does tend to become quite annoying. So annoying, in fact, that I sometimes want to just smack the boy across the face – good and hard. That oughtta force some sense into that dreamy head of his; he never thinks with his brain, even when the situations are desperate.

For one thing, he's so fuckin' naïve that it's embarrassin'! Lordy, you should have seen him around those slutty greaser broads. I literally had to ground my teeth at 'em and tell them to go piss off, an' to _never_ come near Johnny again. He was sputterin' and blushin' a colour that definitely was too bright to be considered red. If I weren't so angry at that time, I might have laughed. He was so stupidly shy and modest that it was sickening; if you act like him around broads like those, they'll walk all over ya. No lie.

And when I lectured Johnnycake on that, all he did was nod silently, not even attemptin' to look at me.

Which leads me to 'nother thing: Johnny's way too shy and soft to be a hoodlum. How can he protect himself if he's always so fuckin' forgivin' all the time? That's a bad way to be a greaser – especially during these times. Johnny needs to toughen up; ya know, stick up for himself and slug his bastard of a father whenever he hits him. He shouldn't just stand there and take it all and then go cryin' in the vacant lot later. That just ain't right, and I'm sick and tired of seein' the numerous bruises and cuts that often decorate Johnny's dark-toned face, and then lecturin' him about it, even though I know that it ain't gonna do no good. Like I said before, he needs to become a bit more guarded and not so open.

But, he should never become hard like me. If you're tough and unfeelin' like me, nothin' can touch you. Nothin' can get under your skin and nothin' can break you. This may sound good, but glory, it ain't. I don't even feel human no more; I feel more like a statue. My reasons for living are gone now, and I feel like I don't actually exist – I'm just there.

I don't want Johnny to be like me; he'd be miserable if he were like me. Hell, _I'm_ miserable _being _me. I don't know what I'd do if I suddenly found Johnny without those large, frightened black eyes, or without his constant comfortable silences that seem to follow wherever he goes. Shit, Johnny just wouldn't be Johnny without these qualities – and yet I want him to lose them and want him to keep them at the same time.

I hate it when I contradict myself.

So, as I was sayin', Johnny is quieter than a mouse. Glory hallelujah! You know how those weird philosophical people say that _silence is golden_? Well, let me get something to ya straight: it ain't. Silence is the most painful and most unbearable form of sound there is – and I ain't jokin' when I say that it is unbearable. A guy like me likes to talk, thank you very much. I prefer to fill in those uncomfortable moments with something witty or humorous, not just more silence! Good lord, Johnny about _kills_ me with his lack of somethin' to say. I think that I'll either go crazy or die of all this nonsense! Only time will tell.

And Jesus! You'd think that it would kill the guy to at least try and stay outta trouble for once. On more than one occasion have I found good ol' Johnnycake surrounded by a pack of prejudiced Socs, and I'm always the one that has to do the savin'. I once thought that I was untouchable and indestructible, ya know. I actually was, until I was given the job of guardianship over Johnny Cade. That guy is like a fuckin' magnet to trouble – if it's within a five mile radius, it will most definitely find him. And I am dead serious here; I'm not sayin' this to be funny or nothin'. It's the God honest truth. And glory knows that I'll probably die protectin' him from somethin' one of the days – whether it be from a mob of angry rich West-siders or from greaser broads that would fuck for a buck.

Have you ever seen the old injuries that Johnny has all over his body? They are more than just cuts and bruises, let me tell ya. Not only are they _everywhere_, but they're also broken bones, cracked ribs, and torn muscles. How do I know all this? I remember, once, when his fag of a father had beat Johnny so hard that he could barely limp to escape from the house. When I found him in the vacant lot later that afternoon, I was horrified beyond my mind! Johnnycake's entire face was swollen, black and blue, and his bottom lip was torn and bleedin'. When I had offered to take him to the hospital (he'd be crazy to refuse), Johnny could hardly walk. Right then and there, I felt the hatred that I harboured for Johnny's father return a hundred-fold; for a while, all I could see was red as my fists ached to punch something. I was disappointed and angry with Johnny for not defendin' himself, but even more furious at myself for not stopping this mindless abuse. After all, was I not the Dallas Winston? I was the guy that every greaser and cop feared. I was the guy that always got what he wanted. I was the guy that never took 'no' for an answer.

Then how come it was so fuckin' hard for me to stop Johnny from hurtin'?

When I had carried him back to the Curtis' house, I demanded that he strip so that I could examine all of the injuries that his ol' man had inflicted upon him. Obviously, he was shy and against it at first, but with enough yelling, swearing, and "Dammit, Johnny!"s, he finally gave in.

I'll never forget that night. I fuckin' swear, when I looked over the nude boy, I almost decided to take one of Darry's cookin' knives over to the Cade residence, and kill that good-for-nothing bastard. How dare he hurt Johnny like this! I was fumin', and I believe that Johnny had thought that I was takin' my anger out on him. Stupid boy; as if I would do that.

He begged me, ya know. He begged me to leave his old father alone; he told me that he was weak and he was only drunk and wasn't conscience of what he was doin'. I wanted to shout, "Not fuckin' weak? Look at what he did to you, Johnny! Drunk or not, this is not an excuse!" But I didn't. I just remained silent. Johnny didn't really wanna protect his ol' man – he wanted to protect me. He didn't want to see me wanted for murder, and he most definitely didn't want to lose me to the cooler because of my rash decisions. I reluctantly agreed, although I did promise myself quietly that if Johnny was ever hurt that bad again, I _would_ kill him. I don't give a damn what the boy says; his father's life would be mine to take.

Told ya he was too forgivin', that little punk.

The one thought that will never leave me is why he would never defend himself. I've seen ol' Johnny fight before. He's strong for a kid of his size and age, I'll admit. I just don't understand why he doesn't use this strength to retaliate against his folks. When I had asked him, he didn't say anything. Damn that muthafuckin' silence! It will drive me insane. You just watch me.

I guess the real thing that annoys me is knowin' the fact that I will die one day, and Johnny will be once again unprotected. Nobody will give a hang about him no more – well, not as much as _I_ did, anyway. He'll be lashed at and hit for the rest of his days, and to be honest, that would hurt me more than it would hurt him. I can take physical pain, oh yes I could! Cut off my leg and I won't utter a sound…that's just the way a Winston is. But…but the squeezing and wretching ache that seemed to come from within my mind and soul every time I see Johnny in that pathetic state often leaves me sick and strangely sad. I dunno how to explain it – it's just there.

Then…I guess that if this is the way things are supposed to be – Johnny bein' quiet, dreamy, defenceless, shy, and so forgivin' that it should be a crime – then it can't be all that bad. At least, this would give me a good enough reason to hang around Johnny; this would allow me to be around him to listen to his rare emotion-filled discussions, to see his sunny smile on that bruised face, to be able to protect him from the monsters in this world.

Because, in all the truth, Johnny's silences only make his talks more special, more interesting. They are a rare treat, his speeches. His eyes get all wide and his voice raises, as if trying to emphasize his point. I usually act like I don't give a care in the world about what he's sayin', but nothing can be farther from reality. When Johnny is dreamy, I can actually understand his dreams, and maybe even help him reach them. His defencelessness gives me a chance to prove myself to him – to tell him that he doesn't need to be strong as he often thinks he does; I can be strong for him. I can carry his burdens for him.

Like I said before, I'm like a statue in this life. I'm not exactly human; I'm just there. The only times in my life when I feel human are when I see Johnny smile, when I hear his twinkling laughter, when I see his compassion for others. Because I know that I can never be like that – Johnny is his own being in his own way.

Oh Lordy! Now I'm getting all emotional and shit. Well, that's what happens when one is thinking about Johnny Cade. And to be honest with you, I wouldn't want him any other way. Johnny is Johnny, Goddammit!

And that's probably what I like most about him.

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**Finish**

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**Author's Note:** Wow...this was just horrible. I didn't even send this off to Oscar for betaing, since I was too embarrassed by the quality of my writing months prior to now. It's obvious that I had difficulty with Dally's dialect, but this was fun to write (and revise) at least. :D Please leave a review and comment on what you thought about it. I'm not sure if this can really be counted as slash fiction - perhaps it can also be friendship? I'm still not sure what I think about this one... I almost want to re-read **The Outsiders** just to get back into the fandom again. :3

Well, it's back to studying for me! Thank-you for reading, and I hope that you've enjoyed your brief stay.

**Constructive criticism will be appreciated, and flames shall be ignored**.

Orange Coconuts


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